


a thing with feathers

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Berlin lives, Fix-It, He is still a jerk though, Heist husbands, M/M, Palermo is a cinnamon roll and must be protected at all costs, Reunions, Spoilers for Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “Andrés,” Martín said eventually, his voice strained. “You’re alive.”“You know how it is,” he drawled, affecting a bored tone. “You are arrested and taken in for questioning. You don’t say anything, of course, and so the inspectores begin to believe that you’re more valuable at large. They track your movements, hoping that you’ll lead them to the rest of the team.”Or: Berlin takes over while the Professor is AWOL.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín
Comments: 37
Kudos: 337





	a thing with feathers

Andrés leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking from one screen to another. 

He’d never have thought that he’d find himself back here. Back in a dingy storehouse, the walls dripping with damp, a pungent smell lingering in the air. He supposed that he’d feel better about this whole set-up if he’d had the time to clean up the bloodstains coating the floor, a ragged trail of crimson leading right out the door. 

The stains – as well as Sergio’s glaring absence from the control desk – had led him to believe that someone’d dragged him off. Not the cunning folks of the policía, no. They’d have the place surrounded by now, searching every nook and cranny for clues. 

Andrés would have to figure out what do to. Come up with a plan to get his brother back, alive and well. But there was something he’d have to take care of first. 

He reached out and picked up the microphone. It emitted a static crackling, a familiar buzzing sound he thought he’d never hear again. It was like music to his ears.

“It looks like you could use a hand, Tokyo.” 

On the screen, Tokyo’s head snapped up like that of a sleuthhound sniffing blood. A Pavlovian dog, and Andrés was the master. At least until he’d found out what had happened to his brother. 

“Who’s there?” She snapped, all sharp edges and extended claws like a feisty kitten. A spitfire, just like he remembered. “Where’s the Professor?” 

“I fear that the Professor is currently unavailable,” he drawled. An amused smile stole over his lips as he watched the team gather around Tokyo, their faces a study in fear and concern. “But there’s no need to worry. I’ll take his place until he returns.” 

Realization dawned on her face as anger gave way to a near-manic grin. Truthfully, he hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected anyone to be glad that he was still around. That he had somehow – miraculously – survived their stunt at the Mint. 

“Berlin?” It was hard to make out the exact nuances in her tone, but Andrés was almost certain that he’d heard awe. Tokyo was impressed. Who would have thought? 

There were faint murmurs from the rest of the group, a nondescript hum interlaced with white noise. Some were clasping their hands over their mouths in shock, others seemed incensed. 

Still, he didn’t pay any attention to them. There was only one person who commanded his undivided attention. His best friend. His soulmate. 

Martín. 

His head had snapped up at Tokyo’s exclamation, his face awash wish disbelief and hurt. If Andrés were a better man, he’d leave now. Leave Martín behind for good and allow him to finally move on instead of forcing him to re-visit the darkest chapter of his life. 

And yet… Andrés's surroundings seemed to fade away, nothing but a hazy blur of sounds and colors, drowned out by the all-consuming longing to hear the voice of his best friend. 

He wanted to speak to him. 

He _needed_ to speak to him. 

“Tell me, Tokyo,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Martín’s face. He took in the way his hands clenched at his side, how he struggled to keep himself from reaching for the radio. “Who is in charge of this little ragtag team of libertines?” 

Tokyo laughed smugly. “ _I_ am.” 

“Oh really?” He gave a noncommittal hum. There was no way Sergio would have chosen her to lead the team and they both knew it. It was a bluff, nothing more. 

“I find it hard to believe that the Professor would put _you_ in charge. Remind me: Who went against the Professor’s direct orders and staged a mutiny? Whose fault was it that Moscow got shot? And don’t think I’ve forgotten the delightful round of Russian Roulette we played.” He chuckled, shaking his head as though reminiscing with an old friend. “You are too impulsive to be in charge. Now hand the radio over to one of the adults.” 

She snarled, and for a moment he thought that she might do something stupid. That she’d lash out and disobey him. Truthfully, any other time he might have enjoyed provoking her a little more. Prodding and poking her until she fell apart, all white-hot fury and scorn. _You are lucky that I’ve got more important matters to take care of_ , he thought as his eyes flickered over to Martín. 

To his surprise, Tokyo obliged without putting up a fight. Her face twisted into a contrite grimace as she handed the radio over to Martín, who reluctantly took it from her. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. A wild animal about to bolt. Or bite. 

He seemed to brace himself for something, and Andrés used the time to adjust his tie. Making himself presentable as though Martín could somehow see him through the security camera. 

Slowly, Martín raised the radio to his lips. His eyes were locked onto the camera, dark and imploring. The despair on his face reminded Andrés of lambs being led to slaughter, and for a moment he wondered if that was how Martín was feeling right now. Shaky and helpless, like he didn’t dare hope that fate might have led them back to each other. 

“This is Palermo speaking.” 

Andrés couldn’t help it. He chuckled, amused by his friend’s display of careful disinterest. 

Martín’s brows furrowed at the sound of his laughter, his hands tightening around the radio, knuckles white and shiny. 

“Martín,” Andrés breathed, affection lacing his words. Martín’s reaction was immediate. His eyes fell shut and the tension fled his shoulders. All of a sudden, he seemed years younger, unburdened by the hardships of life. Untouched by loss and heartache. 

Andrés wondered if he was conscious of the rest of the group. How they hung on his every word, eager to understand what was happening. Lost in the dark like lambs without a shepherd.

“Andrés,” Martín said eventually, his voice strained. Awed. “You’re alive.” 

“Ahh, yes.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He’d always had a flair for the dramatic, and what was more dramatic than being resurrected from the dead? A messiah come to guide his people, to safeguard them from the perils of this world. 

“You know how it is,” he drawled, affecting a bored tone. As though this whole spiel was beneath them. “You are arrested and taken in for questioning. You don’t say anything, of course, and so the inspectores begin to believe that you’re more valuable at large. They track your movements, hoping that you’ll lead them to the rest of the team.” 

It was an abridged version of events. The kind of summary one might find on the cover of a book. A synopsis that omitted the torture, the threats. Omitted, too, the many nights spent aboard Greyhound busses and late-night trains across Europe. There were no words to express how undignified he had felt then, forced to stay at crowded hostels, sharing rooms with blowzy backpackers and rambunctious teenagers on their gap year. 

Back then, he’d have given anything to go back to Florence. Back to the friary, and back to sharing quarters with Martín. Back to long nights spent drinking and laughing, _planning_. All the stolen glances he had pretended not to notice. He could still feel Martín's eyes on him, warm and hopeful. The way Martín's knee would brush against his under the table. The enamored smile on his face whenever their hands would brush, their touches lingering... 

“I would have come back sooner, but I had to make sure it was safe.” 

“You escaped?” 

“Let’s not talk about me.” He flicked a speck of dust off his suit. “Look at you, Martín. Realizing our plan. You are like a composer conducting an orchestra. A painter bringing life to a work of art.” 

Martín smiled at the praise. For a brief moment it felt like it was just the two of them, overwhelmed at the realization that years of planning and scheming had finally come to fruition. _We did this_ , Andrés thought, his chest swelling with pride. _This was our plan. Our lifeblood._

There was a coughing sound, and Andrés's eyes flickered over to see Tokyo pointedly clearing her throat. Still bristling from his remarks then. 

“It’s not gonna be a work of art for much longer,” Martín said, seemingly remembering that they weren’t alone. That the others were waiting for an explanation. “We haven’t talked to the Professor in twenty hours. What’s going on?” 

“Twenty hours, you say?” Andrés picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers. “He’s not here. I’ll be in charge until he returns, and I can assure you that everything is going according to plan. I’ll let you know if that changes.” 

Martín swallowed, and gave a sharp nod of his head. 

“Sí señor,” he said before turning back to the others, the paragon of respect and high regard. He seemed to be in his element as he ordered the others to resume their work like a venerated general commanding his army. It was glorious. _Beautiful_. 

All too soon Martín was the only one left in the Gobernador’s office. He looked so small and fragile then, standing lonely against the grandeur of the backdrop. His face was marred with little cuts, harsh against his pale skin. Andrés wondered if that was the worst of it or if there were other injuries hidden underneath the overall. 

Martín didn’t say anything, merely stood there, the radio clutched against his chest – right over his heart. He looked like he was composing himself, and Andrés didn’t rush him. 

Eventually, Martín brought the radio up to his lips. 

“Andrés...” He trailed off, searching for words. It was an uneven playing field, Andrés realized. Because while he had imagined it many times, for Martín this conversation must have seemed like a thing of impossibility, forever out of reach. 

He watched as Martín sucked in a breath. “I’m still–” 

“I know,” Andrés said, cutting him off. He didn’t need to hear the words to know what Martín was feeling. That he still felt betrayed and hurt. That he despised him, and that it would take time for him to trust him again. That he still loved him because a bond like theirs could not be broken. It was blessing and curse alike. After all, Andrés had meant it when he’d told Martín that his love was too strong. That his unabashed adoration, his wholehearted devotion posed a danger to the both of them. 

“It will get easier over time. You’re doing so well. Don’t throw it away by falling back into bad habits.” 

“You can’t be serious. A bad habit? That’s what you think you are?” Martín’s brow furrowed in indignation, his jaw clenching. He’d always done passion well, Andrés thought, be it ardor or anger. Although he had never witnessed the latter directed at him. Not even when he had broken his heart. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I love the plan, yes. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I wanted to be close to you. Because this plan was the only thing I had left of you. It was the only way to have a part of you with me again.” 

Silence dragged between them, and for a long, torturous moment there was nothing but the crinkling of static. 

“But I messed up, Andrés,” Martín said eventually, his voice small and lost. A confession. “I jeopardized our plan. It’s my fault that things got out of hand. Nairobi is dead because of me.” 

He looked absolutely miserable, and Andrés wished that he was there with him. That he could reach out and caress his face, slowly, gently. He’d card his fingers through his hair, trace them over his temples and down the sides of his face. He’d tell him that he had done nothing wrong, that he was brilliant. 

But most of all, he wished that he could take this burden off him. His brother had been right: Martín wasn’t suited for leadership. He was too volatile. Without Andrés's guidance, Martín was a wildcard. Unpredictable and dangerous. A force to be reckoned with. 

And once again it was Andrés's role to take Martín’s hand and guide him towards the light. To show him that life was wondrous, a thing with feathers. Andrés would gladly offer him the much-needed absolution which Martín had denied himself. 

“You love this plan like a child, Martín. And like any parent, you are blind to its faults.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “But you don’t have to do this alone anymore. I am here now and I love you, my friend. It will be like Florence all over. Just you and me and this thing between us. It’s time we finally brought our plan to life. Together. What do you say, mi amor?” 

It was as close to an apology as he’d ever come. He just hoped that Martín would recognize it for what it was. That he’d still be able to read him like an open book. Still, Andrés felt his chest clench in anticipation as he hesitated. 

But then – finally – a smile stretched over Martín’s face. His eyes were still shining with unshed tears, but the way he squared his shoulders and raised his chin in new-found confidence made Andrés's chest swell with fondness. Martín, bold and self-assured, was a sight to behold. 

“Yes, Andrés.” He sounded breathless, almost rapturous. “I will always say yes to you.” 

Andrés closed his eyes and allowed Martín’s words to nest inside his heart. Something stirred deep inside of him. A thawing, golden and vibrant, lighting him up from the inside and igniting him with a feeling which he had thought lost long ago: a sense of comradery, of belonging, of _love_.

“Get back to work, _Palermo_. I will talk to you later.” 

“Sí señor!” He said, winking at the camera and touching his hand to his forehead in a playful salute. Andrés chuckled at his antics, and watched as Martín hurried out of the Gobernador’s office, the radio still clutched tightly in his hand. A lifeline connecting him to Andrés. 

Leaning back in his chair, Andrés allowed his mind to linger on Martín’s words, on his smile, the mirth in his eyes. Loyal, loving Martín. Andrés knew that he’d still be on his mind when he headed out to search for his brother. He’d still think about him then, and – because he deserved the pain – he’d remember another time, another place. An echo of denial and heartache. 

_You’ll think about me, but I’m not gonna think about you_. 

Martín really did deserve better, Andrés thought. But he’d already done the selfless thing once. He couldn’t be expected to do it a second time. The next time Martín sought him out, he’d acquiece. He wouldn’t submit, no. Never that. But he’d follow Martín’s lead and give him what he wanted. What they both wanted. 

His eyes roamed over the screens one more time to make sure that everyone was back at their respective posts. Then he grabbed his hat and coat, and slipped out of the storehouse and into the night. 

He had to figure out what had happened to his brother. 

**Author's Note:**

> I took French in school, which is to say that my Spanish is limited to my ability to use google translate. Please don't hesitate to let me know if I got any of the expressions wrong. 
> 
> The title is reverently taken from Emily Dickinson's poem 'Hope'.
> 
> Kudos and feedback are my lifeblood. I'm still trying to get a grasp on the characters, so constructive criticism is much appreciated.


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